Responsibility
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Prediction for season 8. Peter Capaldi's Twelfth Doctor has a fatherly side, and Clara's not sure how to feel about the change.


Responsibility

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Doctor Who

Copyright: BBC

"Hold on a minute, young lady," said the Doctor.

Halfway to the TARDIS door, Clara raised her eyes to the ceiling and turned around. That gruff Scottish voice he had now would take some getting used to; so would the way he held still, standing with one hand braced against the console, instead of spinning around as his previous self had done. But what confused her most of all about the new Doctor, by a long shot, were moments like this.

_When he said he'd be a different man, he wasn't kidding._

"What's the matter?" she asked, bouncing on her toes. "It's Hawaii, Doctor, c'mon! Tropical flowers, sunny beaches, sexy lifeguards in tiny bathing suits – which I admit is more my speed than yours, but still!"

"I need to check what timeframe we've landed in," he said, swiveling a viewscreen around to face him and frowning at it in the blue-green light as he typed. Whatever he saw caused him to sigh, roll his eyes, and give the TARDIS a reproachful tap on the time rotor. "Figures," he rumbled. "The old girl's landed us within days of a volcanic eruption."

"Oh."

"Let me see if I can move her past it … if we just … c'mon, sexy thing, I know you can do it … "

Clara leaned against the railing, fiddling with the handles of her bright red beach bag, as she watched the new Doctor working on his ship. Through the sunglasses she wore, the underwater shadows of the place appeared even more sombre, and so did he. His navy blue shirt and jeans, his gray curls and sharp-boned face, the neat efficiency of his movements, seemed to fit the ship better, strangely enough, than the boyish eccentric he had been. She wondered if the TARDIS had known in advance what his regeneration would be like, then smiled to herself. Of course the time machine had known.

This wasn't her Doctor. Her Doctor would have grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door without a second glance. They'd be up to their ears in danger by now and loving every second. She hadn't believed it was possible to miss someone so much while he was standing right there.

If only …

"Maybe she wants us here," Clara gathered her courage to say.

"Hmm?"

"The TARDIS. What if the reason she's not moving is because we're supposed to help? Prevent whatever makes the volcano erupt or … or even make sure it _does_ erupt. Keep the timeline safe. Rescue people, stop an alien terrorist plot, whatever. Isn't that what we do?"

The Doctor's thick gray eyebrows knit into a glare. "And since when do you know what the TARDIS wants, young lady? A few weeks ago, she was locking you out and you were shaking your umbrella all over her floor."

"I wish you'd stop calling me young lady. You're not my dad!" _Oh my stars, _she thought to herself, flushing to the tips of her ears. _I sound like Angie. Is this how she feels, having a nanny at sixteen? No wonder she's so stroppy!_

"No," he retorted, "I'm about a thousand years older. While you're on my TARDIS, I'm responsible for you, and I won't have you putting yourself in danger. Is that clear?"

"Doctor." She folded her arms and held her head high. "Let me go out there. Please. I'm twenty-five, I've proven to you more than once I can take care of myself, and I _want_ to help!"

"Clara."

His face suddenly softened as he rounded the console to walk towards her. He stopped within arm's length of her, so tall she had to crane her neck to look up at him.

"Clara," he said, putting both hands on her shoulders. "I've been so careless all my lives, but especially this last one. Careless with you, the Ponds, the TARDIS … everything. I let you die for me – not just once, but hundreds of times."

"You took a poison dart for me," she reminded him, her voice shaky as she remembered the long hours of agony before his regeneration. "I'd say that makes us even."

"It's not about being even." His hands tightened on her shoulders. "It's about not wanting to see Dave Oswald standing by another grave. I'm not losing you, Clara. I'm keeping you safe."

His eyes were blue now, not green, but he looked at her just as her Doctor used to look. It made her own eyes sting with something like joy, and inspired her with the perfect words to say.

"What about those people outside, Doctor?" she asked softly. "Who's keeping them safe?"

He stepped away from her, ran his hand through his silver hair, and let out a low, sardonic rumble of a laugh.

"To think it used to be me dragging you into trouble," he muttered. "Talk about payback. All right, Clara, all right. Just a moment."

He turned abruptly away, strode back to the console, opened a compartment, and tossed two objects at Clara, who caught them reflexively. They were a first-aid kit and – she raised her eyebrows – a pistol small enough to tuck into the pocket of her cargo shorts.

"Don't care for them myself," he said in explanation when she held it up, "But having an armed companion might come in useful. Sunscreen?"

"Check."

"Mosquito repellent?"

"Check."

"Geiger counter?"

"You've got to be joking!"

"What?" he shrgged. "You never know." They stared at each other for a minute, until his stern face cracked into a smirk.

"Yes, I'm joking," he said, tucking his screwdriver into his shirt pocket and heading back toward the entrace way. "Come on, Soufflé Girl. What are you waiting for?"

He held out a thin, long-fingered, deceptively frail-looking hand. She took it and squeezed, tugging him along, as she had done from the moment they had met. Together, they pushed open the TARDIS doors and stepped out into the sun.


End file.
